


in love with being queen

by inlovewithnight



Category: Magic Mike XXL (2015)
Genre: Backstory, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 17:42:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5013985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They danced in and out of each other's lives for a long time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in love with being queen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [livrelibre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/livrelibre/gifts).



They met when they were still Trisha Wexler of Findlay, Ohio and Ramona Givens of Savannah. They met at a third-tier beauty pageant in Virginia, where the prize money wouldn’t quite cover what either of them spent on bus tickets, a hotel room, and the dresses they were wearing.

They were both cut before the talent round and ended up back in Trisha’s room, eating Saltines and drinking wine from a bottle they stole from the contestant’s dinner the night before.

“Fuck,” Ramona said. “I’m so sick of this bullshit I could cry.”

“I’d rather drink.” Trisha held the bottle to Ramona’s lips. “C’mon. This is better.”

Ramona closed her eyes, drank, swallowed, smiled. “That is better.”

They had both taken off their pageant dresses but left on the underwear that went with it—tiny panties that wouldn’t make lines, push-up bras that left angry marks across their ribs, tummy-cinchers around their waists. Those were the first things to come off in deference to the wine. Ramona threw hers right into the trash, and after a moment Trisha followed suit.

“Fuck it,” Ramona said, washing the words down with another drink. “I’m done squishing myself into that. There’s gotta be another way to do it.”

“I hope so.” Trisha stretched out on the bed, looked at the ceiling, reached back to pop the catch on her bra.

Ramona swung one leg over Trisha’s, straddling her thighs. “We should have a party.”

“What kind of party?” Trisha rested her hands on Ramona’s hips, looking up at her face backed by a halo of ugly hotel light.

“Party of two.” Ramona leaned down and kissed her, and Trisha’s hands moved up to Ramona’s hair, holding her in place.

**

A year later they’re both in New York, dancing for a living. Ramona is Rome, now; gorgeous, bold, queenly Rome. Trisha is still Trisha, but her tits are bigger and her heels are higher.

They dance together, sometimes, in the early half-lit hours after work, Rome’s hands pressed flat and tight to Trisha’s ass, Trisha swaying in against her until she has a chance to slip her thigh between Rome’s and feel hot slick wet through the barely-there G-string Rome wears to work.

Rome eventually catches Trisha’s wrist and guides her hand down to touch her better than that, to get her fingers up inside and work them slow and hot. Rome tilts her head back, moans, shakes, goes so wet around her that Trisha can hear it when she moves her fingers.

That’s good, that’s the best, except when the best is Rome pushing Trisha down on the bed, telling her to hold just-so-still if she wants what she has coming, and then sliding down to pull Trisha’s legs over her shoulders and eat her out until she screams. Nail tracks on her hips and inner thighs, teeth scrapes on all the delicate skin she gets ripped bare with wax on a strict schedule. Rome is written all over her. As if she could forget.

**

They see each other again in London, a year or two down the line. They’re both there on tenuous grounds, traveling by trading on their faces and their bodies, on how they move and how they laugh, on being young and ripe and distinct versions of perfect. And _good_ , good at what they do. All of it.

“Trisha,” Rome says when they find each other in a hotel lobby. They air-kiss, both cheeks, smiling at each other with more honesty. “Look at you.”

“It’s Paris, now,” she answers, her smile growing as Rome gets the joke. They don’t have to laugh out loud; they both can take a cue more subtly than that.

“Of course it is.” Rome brushes a strand of hair back behind Paris’ ear. “You look wonderful, darling.”

“So do you.” Paris has never held back her admiration when it comes to Rome; she doesn’t start now, looking her up and down with hunger and worship. “It’s great to see you again.”

“We should catch up,” Rome says, her eyes bright with promise. “Just the two of us. Can you get away?”

Paris mentally flicks through her obligations, shuffling them like cards. “Late dinner tonight? Ten-thirty, here at the hotel?”

“Perfect.” Another air-kiss, all the better with the promise of more. “I’ll see you then.”

Dinner is room service, entirely things that can be eaten off the body, or that don’t suffer much for being pushed aside to get cold after a few bites, over and over again.

**

The last time they see each other—or what Paris thinks will be the last time—is in Las Vegas, where they’re both dancing at special engagements. Very exclusive. Very fancy. Very well-paid.

Rome is taking her paycheck and going home. “I’m going to buy the place I told you about. The one where I’ve been working.” She lights a cigarette, takes a drag, breathes smoke across Paris’ belly toward the window. “I’m basically running it anyway by now. I’ll buy it and make it into something good.”

“You’ll make it into something _amazing_ ,” Paris corrects her. She takes the cigarette and spins it slowly between her fingers. Her thighs are wet, from herself and Rome’s mouth. She wants to go again; she wants Rome’s thighs on either side of her head, Rome’s cunt hot on her tongue. She wants to barely be able to breathe from the heat of her.

After the cigarette. Once that’s gone, she’ll reach for Rome again.

“What are your plans?” Rome asks, stealing the cigarette back from Paris’ fingers. “I know you’ve got some. You always do.”

Paris shrugs, walking her fingers along Rome’s shoulder. “Not sure. Might go live on the beach somewhere.”

“You’d be bored out of your mind, baby.”

“Yeah.” Paris laughs a little, watching the end of the cigarette glow in Rome’s hand. “Maybe I’ll try organizing shows instead of dancing in them. I can’t be any worse at it than some of the people doing it now.”

Rome rolls her eyes. “That’s a low bar.” She leans across Paris to stab the cigarette out on a plate on the bedside table. “You’ll be at least as good at it as you are at shorting out hotel smoke alarms.”

“I’ve got a gift, honey, what can I say?” They laugh together, and Paris takes her moment, reaching for Rome with both hands and drawing her in.

**

The Myrtle Beach convention is the last place Paris expects to see Rome. It’s on the short list of the last places she expected to find herself, really, but life’s funny that way.

When they see each other, they both can’t help but smile. Really, Paris thinks, they _should_ have known they weren’t done with each other yet. They just might never be.

She wonders how fast she can get champagne on ice waiting in her room. They’re a long way from where they started. They’ve got some catching up to do.


End file.
